


What We Thought We Could Never Have

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Insecurity, Kissing, Love Confessions, Love Poems, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, True Love, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "'Mycroft, there's only thing I want to know. Only one,'" Sherlock pleaded and tried his best to keep his voice low and steady.'Do you still feel the same?'"





	What We Thought We Could Never Have

 

 

_We fall in love with people we can't have - Or at least we think that we can't have them_.

 

 

"Where are you going?" Mr Holmes asked his youngest son, who was climbing up the stairs to the first floor. The grey-haired man was on his way to the living room, carrying a large cardboard-box in his hands, the word "Christmas" written in black letters on one side.

 

Sherlock and Mycroft were at their parents' house to celebrate Christmas together. It was an attempt to do something as a family. At least as the part of the family that wasn't forced to spend the rest of its life in a psychiatric hospital.

The events in Sherrinford belonged to the past, but they could never be forgotten. Although on the outside it seemed as if the physical scars were long healed, but especially for Mycroft's and Sherlock’s parents it was difficult to deal with the information that their daughter was still alive and that they would never be able to talk to here like they could to Mycroft and Sherlock.

Indeed referring to the youngest and the oldest of the three siblings, everything seemed to be the same as before. At least at the first glance.

 

"Searching something to occupy myself," Sherlock growled in response and moved aside to allow his father pass. _Something to distract myself…_

 

"Well, you could help me applying the fairy lights, if you so desperately search for something to do," Mr Holmes smiled and steadied his grip around the box.

"Oh, Sherlock," he laughed, when he saw his son's unbelieving facial expression. "Just close the door and turn off the lights in the attic please. I didn't have a free hand to do it on my one."

 

"Of course," Sherlock murmured and made his way to their garret. As his father had said it, the door was still opened and the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling bathed the concrete walls in pale light. Reams of boxes were spread all over the room, filled with decorations and old memories.

 

Sherlock made a few steps into the room to look through some of the old things. Maybe he could find something that could help him enduring the time he had to spend with his family. With Mycroft…

At first he had refused to come to his parent’s house to spend the holidays together with his mother, his father and his older brother. But after everything that had happened it had felt… necessary in some way to stay with his family.

 

The relationship between the two Holmes brothers almost hadn’t changed after Sherrinford. Although Sherlock couldn't explain what exactly he would have expected to be different after the horrible events they were forced to go through. But he had expected it nevertheless.

 

He didn’t know how Mycroft had handled everything, but during some nights Sherlock still couldn't escape the nightmares that ruthlessly haunted him. In these dreams it was as if he stood in front of his brother again, the weapon in his hand directed at his chest. Mycroft’s words ”Goodbye, brother mine“, the last thing he’d intended to say in his life, echoing loud in his ears.

 

Sherlock would have never considered shooting his older sibling even the slightest option. _Never_. He would have rather died on his own than shooting the person he loved. Because that’s what he had done in Sherrinford and what he still he did. He loved his older brother and it was a feeling far stronger than simple brotherly affection.

 

He couldn't tell since when he felt like this. Probably for years, but there had been far too many other things that had occupied his mind. He just couldn’t have cared about such trivial things like sentiment or feelings or _love._ But after his brother had offered him to shoot him, voluntarily wanted to die, he’d realised what Mycroft really meant to him. Which strong feelings he had for his older brother. For the brother that cared so much for him that he’d offered his death, so that he wouldn't have needed to kill John. _John_. His friend, his flatmate, a person that was a very important and indispensable part of his life.

 

But Mycroft thought that John was far more important to him than he really was. And what else could he think based upon the way Sherlock had treated him all the time? How less he had appreciated all the things he had done to protect him, to let nobody harm him. And even now after he’d got clear about what he felt, he hadn't thanked him. He just didn't want to change the way they used to behave around each other. He would just allow Mycroft to invade into the space he had created around him. He couldn't bear to simply imagine what would happen if his brother would come close to him just to repudiate him afterwards. Maybe because he felt disgusted because of Sherlock’s feelings. What if he didn’t want to see him ever again afterwards? Wouldn’t it be the same if he were dead?

 

Sherlock shook his head, slowly drifting back into reality, back into the dusty attic of his parents’ house. He turned around and almost wanted to leave the room, leave the silence that had brought up things he wouldn't want to think about. But when he moved towards the door, he almost stepped onto a box in front of him on the floor.

 

At first Sherlock didn’t want to pay too much attention to the scattered sheets and pictures all around the black leather box his father must have thrown down while searching for the right decorations, but then some old faded pictures made him kneel down to take a closer look on the things.

 

It took him only a few seconds to realise that they obviously belonged to Mycroft. His fine, neat handwriting was unmistakable. The majority of the papers looked like old notes from his time at school and university, but there also were several pictures that showed a much younger version of Mycroft. Sherlock smiled when he looked through them and he wondered even more how he could survive if he never saw him again.

 

Amongst the pictures and sheets an old crumpled piece of paper was stored in the box of Mycroft’ old belongings.

Sherlock unfolded it and started to read the few lines his sibling had written on it an eternity ago:

 

 

_Why do we fall in love with people we can’t have?_

_One half of me loves you so much it hurts._

_The other half tells me that I can never have you._

_It only makes the other half hurt even more._

_I wish I could tell you what you mean to me, how much I love you._

_But I will never be able to tell you even one word of this._

_Everything is a lie. Everything will ever remain like this._

_I love you so much, Sherlock._

 

 

Sherlock had to read the short poem over and over again, but he still couldn’t fully process it. The black letters started to dance in front of his eyes, the dim light in the attic making his brother's handwriting turn into blurry lines.

_I love you so much, Sherlock._

The last few words were barely readable anymore, the paper around them uneven and faded. The outline of a tear covering them - A tear Mycroft had shed years ago.

 

Decades had passed since Mycroft had written this poem. He must have felt these things decades ago and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to know whether the words still showed the truth or whether everything had changed. He needed to…

 

"Sherlock? Where are you?" his mother’s voice suddenly echoed from downstairs and roughly interrupted the trail of his thoughts.

 

Sherlock sighed. "I’m coming," he answered and got up from his kneeling position, while carefully folding the paper to put it in the inner pocket of his jacket. It felt heavy like a stone that he had to carry around with him. So full of love, fear and despair.

 

After a last glimpse towards the black box, Sherlock turned off the ceiling light, filling the room with darkness again. A darkness that wouldn't be able to cover the things he’d found out.

 

 

<> 

 

 

-o-

 

 

_He closes his arms around Mycroft’s back and pulls him against his body. Their chests are pressed against each other, not one centimetre left between them. He feels his brother’s heartbeat resonating through him, vibrating through every little part of him._

_Sherlock leans his head on Mycroft's shoulder, buries his nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling just him. Getting completely lost in his older brother, fading out everything else._

_His fingers trail lightly over Mycroft's back until he cups his neck and leans back a little bit. He looks deep into his sibling’s eyes. The blue seems to reflect the light in the most beautiful way and a small smile appears on the older man’s face._

_"I love you," Sherlock whispers and waits to hear the words out of Mycroft’s mouth as well._

_But suddenly the smile that covered Mycroft’s face only seconds ago disappears and is replaced by a mask that feels cold and hard like stone. The bright blue of Mycroft's eyes seems to disappear. The colourful ring becomes thinner and thinner, until the blackness of the pupils around it swallows it completely._

-o-

 

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered opened, the image of his brother in his arms still in his mind’s eye. The image of his brother with darkened eyes and a facial expression so dismissive that he’s unable to endure the mere mental image of it. But it also was a proof that even his dreams showed him his fear that the things he’d found out weren’t true anymore.

 

Turning around, Sherlock cast a glance at the alarm on his nightstand. 1:47 a.m.. He growled and ran a hand through his messy curls. He couldn't just lie in his bed, after the things he’d read, after the things he’d never considered being possible. Despite the fact that the paper was many years old, it showed that Mycroft had felt like this. And this was a fact Sherlock couldn't ignore. A fact that gave him _hope_.

 

The dinner he had shared with his family a few hours ago had already been incredibly exhausting for Sherlock and it had just been the presence of their parents that had kept him from pulling out the paper and throwing it in front of his brother. He had been forced to wait, to _suppress_ everything again. But this time it wouldn't be like this for another uncountable amount of days.

It was so late that it was obvious that Mycroft wouldn't be awake anymore, but Sherlock just couldn't wait till the next morning. He didn't know whether there would ever be another moment in which he would be able to summon up the courage he needed to talk to his brother about this. _This_. What a simple word for describing something that was anything but simple. Something that was one of the hardest things in the world.

 

Sherlock switched on the light on his nightstand and folded back his blanket to get up and finally face the inevitable. He put on his dressing gown and carefully opened the door, not wanting to make any more noises than necessary. But nevertheless his footsteps sounded unbearably loud in the hallway, breaking the nightly silence that lay over the house.

 

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said quietly after he’d opened the door to his brother’s bedroom and turned on the ceiling light. He nervously slid the paper through his hands, letting his fingertips brush over the thin material that contained so much. At least for him…

 

"Sherlock? Has something happened? How late is it?" Mycroft asked in confusion and rubbed his hand over his face, his eyes still misty and hooded from sleep.

 

"It’s almost 2 a.m. and… actually, no, nothing particular has happened… but," Sherlock murmured, not being able to turn his gaze away from his brother, who slowly shifted into a sitting position.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and unfolded the piece of paper to hand it over to Mycroft with shaking fingers. "I found this in the attic in the afternoon," he simply said, not knowing what else he could add.

 

Mycroft furrowed his brow, his first thought probably why his younger brother would disturb him in the middle of the night to hand him a creased sheet with his handwriting on it. But when he recognized the words on it, his eyes widened in shock and his breathing stopped for seconds.

 

"You were never meant to find out," Mycroft said, his voice trembling, barely a whisper. "It’s wrong. It’s more than wrong, it’s _forbidden_."

"I don’t know why… It…" he muttered incoherently, while getting up from his bed to restlessly stride through the room in a desperate attempt to find a way to handle the situation.

 

"Mycroft, there’s only thing I want to know. Only one," Sherlock pleaded and tried his best to keep his voice low and steady, not letting his own emotions slip out.

"Do you still feel the same?"

 

Mycroft abruptly stopped and turned his head to look into his brother’s direction. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms, but it was the only thing he could do to keep himself from crying and shaking Mycroft to finally give him the answer he wanted. The answer he needed to hear, regardless of what it would be.

 

"I have never felt differently. Not even one day," Mycroft finally responded and now the words were completely whispered, almost not audible anymore. A single tear appeared in the corner of his eye, slowly running down his cheek, painting a wet line on his pale skin that would soon be joined by even more.

 

"But then why have I never realized?" Sherlock asked aloud, the question this time directed to himself.

 

"Because I tried my very best to hide it from you," Mycroft huffed and shook his head.

"And it should have remained like this forever. Why did you have to find this old piece of paper?" Mycroft spat and ripped the sheet, he’d still clutched with his fist, in two parts.

"Why did I even keep it? There’s no point why. I should have thrown it away!"

 

"Mycroft, shhh," Sherlock tried to calm his brother, to keep him from raising his voice even more and involuntarily waking their parents, who were only one floor away from them. He made a few steps towards Mycroft, but his older sibling literally flinched from him, trying to bring as much space as possible between them.

 

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured and absent-mindedly ran a hand through his hair.

"Please go."

 

"I don’t want to go and I can’t. It’s not over just because of the fact that I might leave you now," Sherlock stated and reduced the room between him and his sibling.

"Of course I am shocked of what I found out. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to you in the middle of the night," Sherlock began to explain.

 

"Then why don’t you just go?" Mycroft still begged and tore his hair even harder than before.

 

"I am shocked, because I would have never thought that you could feel like this. The way we behave around each other even confirmed this," Sherlock laughed weakly.

"It seems even more incomprehensible, why _I_ behaved towards you, in the way I did. It wasn’t any better."

 

"Sherlock, what do you mean?" Mycroft asked and tilted his head. He looked so vulnerable, so _weak_ and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms like he had dreamt it. He didn’t want just to tell him what he felt, but to _show_ it to him. But at first he had to put it into words, letting Mycroft listen to them. But not only letting him hear them, but far more important: letting him believe them.

 

"I mean that I love you, Mycroft. And that these few lines," he pointed to the destroyed paper, "seemed to pull the rug out from under my feet, as I realised that you feel the same things I feel. And that you have felt them for so many years."

 

Mycroft shook his head again. The hope Sherlock had seen in his eyes already gone again. "You don’t have to say this to comfort me. It’s noble, but futile," Mycroft said before his voice broke and subsided into a low sob that felt like a sting into Sherlock’s heart.

 

"Listen to the other half of you that tells you that you can have what you want," Sherlock said, changing one line of the poem that he had already memorised, never wanting to forget it ever again.

"Listen to this other half because this time it is right."

And with these words he closed the last metre that had separated him from his older brother. Now that there was almost no room left between them, he could hear the fast and loud beating of Mycroft’s heart, could see the wet trails the tears he’d shed had left on his face. He lifted his hand and brushed his forefinger over his sibling’s cheek, wiping away the remains of his despair.

 

"Sherlock, …" Mycroft tried to say something, but Sherlock shut him up by pressing his lips on his brother’s.

 

It seemed as if the time stood still around them, as if the world stopped revolving.

The touch of their lips was soft and questioning, something incredible intimate and they just stood there, their mouths connected, inhaling the other’s scent, feeling the warmth of the other’s body. Sherlock carefully moved his tongue along the seam of Mycroft's lips, a proposal in the gentlest way. Mycroft opened his mouth without hesitation to gain his brother access to explore him, to allow his tongue to circle around his own. They got so lost in one another that they didn't know anymore where the first one began and the other one ended. But it didn't matter because they were finally one.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally parted and Sherlock looked deep into Mycroft's eyes like he had done in his dream. But this time they didn’t change. Instead they showed so much more to him. Sherlock could see so much more in Mycroft's pupils. He could see all the things Mycroft felt. The disbelief, the fear, but far more important a love so strong it could have never been destroyed. It had only been suppressed, like he had done it with his own.

 

"Come, let’s go back to bed," Sherlock murmured and softly grabbed the sleeve of Mycroft's pyjama shirt to guide them both back to the large bed.

 

When they’d both lain down on the mattress, Mycroft’s back against Sherlock’s chest, their hands folded right above his throbbing heart, the last bit of disbelief and tension finally faded out of Mycroft’s mind.

 

"It didn’t remain like this forever," Mycroft sighed and pressed Sherlock’s hand.

 

"You still know the lines of the poem?" he asked and slung one of his legs around Mycroft’s, never wanting to let him go again, to abandon what they’d just achieved.

 

"How could I ever forget something that is so important to me?" Mycroft murmured and closed his eyes to slowly drift into a sleep that was the most soothing one he had experienced in many, many years.

 

 

-o-o-o- One Week Later -o-o-o- Mycroft's House -o-o-o-

 

 

_I love you so much, Sherlock._

 

Sherlock had thought about these few words several times during the last days. About the few words that were the most important one’s in the whole world. But he hadn't needed to just think about them anymore. He could also here them now. Every time Mycroft had said them to him, Sherlock’s heart had seemed to glow and a heat had started to spread through his body, radiating right out of his glowing heart.

 

"Why are you smiling?" Mycroft’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. But Sherlock would never become tired of hearing his brother. He would stop everything for him, as he could finally show him what he meant to him.

 

"I just thought what would have happened if I had never found your old poem," Sherlock said and smiled lightly at his older sibling, who was sitting on the other end of the sofa in Mycroft's living room.

"We would live in the same way as before and I don’t know how long I could have been able to go on like this. But fortunately it’s unnecessary to think about it anymore."

 

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft sighed and moved closer to Sherlock so that he could pull him into his arms. They wrapped strong and tightly around him, not wanting him to go away ever again. And Sherlock didn't want to. He tilted his head, leaning back against Mycroft's shoulder so that he could see the small smile that curled around the corners of his mouth. It was a smile that was incomparable to the one’s that normally covered his face when he’d pretended that he’d been all right. This smile was completely different. It lit up his whole face, reached his eyes, made them shine in the blue of the sea.

 

"I doubt that I would have been able to wait for all of this any longer," Sherlock murmured and made a slight gesture with his hand that should indicate that he meant the whole situation they were in.

 

"Me neither," the older Holmes whispered and placed a soft kiss on Sherlock’s brown curls.

"But there are uncountable other things I am barely unable to wait for any longer," he said, while brushing his finger over Sherlock’s incredible cheekbones, along his jawline until he let it slide past the opened collar of his shirt and lightly trailed it over the soft skin of Sherlock’s chest.

 

Sherlock shivered. They had wordlessly agreed that their new discovered relationship needed time to develop. To _slowly_ develop to give the two of them time to settle into it. But all the months of uncertainty and suppression had made both of the brothers even more drawn to each other.

 

During the last kisses they had shared, the last times they had embraced, Sherlock had felt more and more how much he wanted to explore his brother’s body, to kiss every part of his skin, to see the look on his face when he was touched by him, when he shivered and gasped under his fingers. - And obviously Mycroft wanted exactly the same.

 

"I could enumerate a few of them I think," Sherlock said and slightly pushed his hips backwards, pressing his back against Mycroft's crotch.

"But why not start with them instead of just talking about what we could do?2

 

"Wise words, brother mine," Mycroft acknowledged in response and twirled a strand of Sherlock’s hair around his forefinger, slightly pulling on it.

 

Sherlock turned around, now sitting on Mycroft's lap, his face directed to his brother’s. So many years of trying not to notice what was between them, so many months in which the desires were even stronger and intrusive - and now they were over. Finally and forever.

 

They moved closer until their lips met into a kiss. But it was nothing comparable to their first kiss anymore. Both brothers put all their feelings inside the kiss. But it wasn’t just the indescribable relief they had experienced during this night in Mycroft's old bedroom. The kiss was full of love, caring and a lust they could no longer withhold.

 

Sherlock roamed his hands down Mycroft's cloth-covered chest, feeling his already hardened nipples underneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Are you sure about that?" Sherlock asked after he’d separated their mouths. He wanted to ask his brother one last time, although the answer was clear.

"I don’t want to do anything else. I want only you,“ Mycroft whispered, his voice hoarse and deep. Sherlock’s eyes moved over his lips, which glistened red and wet in the light, the evidence of their kiss undeniable. But they both didn't want to deny it anymore - at least not in presence of the other one.

 

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft’s words. To hear how important he was to him, how much he _wanted_ him was indescribable. And he wanted him exactly as strong.

 

"I think someone else also wants me very much," Sherlock teased his sibling, while shifting his hips, rolling them over Mycroft's hardening cock. He knew how insecure Mycroft felt sometimes and he wanted nothing more than to show him that he didn’t need to feel like this, that he just should let go. It was just the two of them, the rest of the world barred from what they did. Not allowed to see how much they loved each other, to see how they showed it.

 

"Hmm, who could blame him for that?" Mycroft responded and his fingers moved over the front of Sherlock’s shirt, starting to slide the buttons through the buttonholes. He placed his palm on his brother's bare chest, as soon as he had opened up the whole row of buttons and Sherlock’s heartbeat resonated through his hand, his skin warm and soft against his own.

 

A slight gasp escaped Mycroft's parted lips, when Sherlock playfully pinched his nipples through his shirt, brushing the fabric over his sensitive skin.

"You. Are. Definitely. Overdressed," Sherlock murmured and after every word opened up one button of his brother's shirt, revealing centimetre after centimetre of Mycroft’s chest. _Admiring_ every centimetre he was able to see.

 

After he had opened up the last button, he slid Mycroft's shirt over his shoulders and pushed their naked fronts together. He moaned in pleasure, when Mycroft's stiff nipples rubbed against his own, when the soft curls of his chest hair brushed over his skin.

 

Their cocks were pressed against each other, hard and wanting, craving for friction, craving for touch. Sherlock slid his hand down his brother’s chest, over his stomach until he cupped it around his erection. Mycroft’s dick strained against the fabric of his pants and Sherlock felt it swelling under his fingers, completely filling the curve of his hand.

He squeezed Mycroft's cock firmly through his pants, eliciting another moan from his older sibling and Mycroft’s hips bucked upwards, subconsciously searching for more pressure against Sherlock’s hand.

 

Still not removing his hand, Sherlock leaned forward and nestled his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck, inhaling his after-shave, licking over his heated skin.

 

"Sherlock… I…" Mycroft stuttered as soon as his brother lowered his head and moved his tongue over his body, starting at his collarbone and making his way to one of his erected nipples. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the hardened nub, letting it slide into his mouth, feeling it swell even more because of his teasing sucks and licks. His nose was buried inside Mycroft's chest hair and he got completely lost in his scent, in something he could only describe as _Mycroft_.

 

Sherlock lightly scraped his teeth along the soft flesh of his brother's nipple and was rewarded with a soft pulling on his curls.

"Do you really want me to come like this?" Mycroft asked, his breathing heavy and fast, his face flushed, his auburn hair already dishevelled, as he must have thrown his head back against the backrest of the couch.

"Because I doubt that I’ll be able to hold it back much longer," he sighed and bent his back, so that his erection was pressed against Sherlock’s again.

 

"I want to see you come in every way that is possible. We can do everything together. Finally," Sherlock responded after he’d released Mycroft's nipple out of his mouth with an almost obscene _pop_.

"But for now I know how I want to see you come," he purred and bucked his hips against his brother's groin, pushing it hard against his erected cock.

 

"God," Sherlock moaned and almost desperately increased the speed of his humps.

"You feel so incredibly huge. I wonder what it is like to have your gorgeous cock shoved into my arse. And hopefully not long until I’ll know. But now I want to feel it somewhere else."

He could have asked his older brother if he was alright with what he intended to do, but for once he wanted him to just _show_ him how good he could make him feel. How good he would feel after the things Sherlock wanted to do.

 

So instead of wasting any more time, Sherlock opened up the button of Mycroft’s trousers and slid them down his legs as far as it was possible in their position. He cupped his cock with one hand and started to rub his thumb over the fabric, feeling blood rushing into Mycroft's dick, pulsing hot underneath his palm.

"And again, you’re overdressed," Sherlock murmured and pulled on the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers so that his cock could spring free and was enveloped by the chilly air of the room.

"Oh God, I was right with my assumption," Sherlock moaned when he took in the sight of his brother’s large cock that was definitely above average size. The tip of it already glistened wet in the light and Sherlock trailed his fingers over the veins that were spread all over the thin skin.

 

Mycroft gasped for air when Sherlock leaned down and tentatively let his tongue circle over the slit at the head of his cock. After a few seconds Sherlock moved his head forward a fraction and pushed the first centimetres of his brother’s erection into his mouth. He looked upwards, seeking his brother’s eyes, wanting to see the lust and pleasure in them, before he finally moved his head forwards and buried his brother’s cock completely into his mouth with one swift movement.

 

Sherlock had to open his mouth wider so that he was able to slide the remaining part of his brother’s cock into him and he had to take a deep breath when he felt it pressed against his tongue and throat. But after he’d adjusted to the strange feeling of being filled by the hot and throbbing flesh, he started to move his head back and forth in a fast rhythm, letting Mycroft’s cock steadily sliding in and out of his mouth. The older man’s breathing echoed fast and shallow in the room and he couldn't think about anything else than Sherlock’s mouth that was wrapped around his cock. They were one again, connected in a way that was one of the most intimate ones in the world.

 

When the tip of Mycroft’s cock brushed against Sherlock’s throat again, the younger man used this and swallowed around it, knowing what this action would cause, but desperately wanting to really feel it. Mycroft's whole body tensed and he stilled in his movements. All the years without sex, the years filled with fantasies about a person he wanted so much and thought he could never have, had kept him from lasting any longer. Thick stripes of come flooded into Sherlock's mouth, salty and bitter on the younger's tongue, but tasting so incredibly like Mycroft that he wanted to savour every tiny drop of it, to swallow every little bit.

 

Mycroft dug his nails into Sherlock’s back when he was overwhelmed by his orgasm, pressing his brother’s face even closer against his body, burying his nose in his pubic hair. He couldn't keep himself from groaning aloud and it was a sound that let goose bumps appear on Sherlock’s body, but it also went right into his cock and made it leak even more precome that darkened the fabric of his trousers.

 

Sherlock leaned back and with trembling fingers opened up his pants in what seemed like split seconds, so that he could finally close his fist around his twitching erection. He cradled his tensed balls in his hand and gave his cock two fast and impatient strokes, until he spilled his release all over his clothes and hand. A few splatters of his semen hit Mycroft's stomach and chest, the white drops clinging onto his skin, sticking in the soft trail of dark hair that lead to his cock that shone wet with Sherlock’s saliva.

This mere sight alone made Sherlock’s cock spurt out one last stripe of come and he almost collapsed onto Mycroft’s body, smearing his semen over their skin, marking his brother as his, as that’s exactly what he was. His forever.

 

After taking a few deep breaths, Mycroft finally felt able to speak again.

"How have I been able to live without feeling you so close to me? Without seeing you when I come instead of just imagining you?" he asked and Sherlock felt a shudder going through his body because of the intimacy of his brother’s words. Because of all the formerly secret feelings Mycroft showed with them.

 

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered and closed his arms around his brother's back, lightly trailing his fingers over it. "I love you and I'll always do. You'll never have to just imagine me anymore."

 

"I know that. What we have now is the most incredible thing in the world. I love you too, little brother. I can’t put into words how much."

And with these last sentences he sealed Sherlock’s mouth with a kiss that showed so much more than everything he could have said.


End file.
